A Patchwork Knight
by Nimbus Llewelyn
Summary: Bucky Barnes is a patchwork doll made of scraps. His search for more scraps to fill in the gaps is slow and frustrating at the best of times. He is reasonably sure of what he is, but he's still completely uncertain about who he is. How fortunate that someone should come forward with answers. But of course, the Queen of Air and Darkness does not give away answers for free.


**This little short is me testing my long disused skills at short-form stories, exploring an idea I've had buzzing around my head for a while (the exploration of which was inspired by Waffilicious' _Winter Knight_ and the amazing art associated with it) and having a shot at writing in the third person present, which I've never done before. **

**Note to all COS fans: this is not connected to that 'verse. Second note: please take this as proof that I'm not dead. My laptop died and I've only recently got a replacement.**

He is lost. Not lost physically – he knows exactly where he is. Kraków, Poland. He knows the best transport routes, the best places to lay low and the best places to acquire weaponry should he need it. It's one of the little things about himself he can't explain, little things that taken together form a vast blank canvas.

Until recently, this wasn't a problem. He had known what he was and with each mission he had been given a purpose. In between, he had slept. Everything else, such as his ability to speak multiple languages, to wield nearly every extant form of weaponry on the planet and to defeat any (almost any) opponent in single combat, was simply an aspect of his nature as an Asset, making him better able to perform his function.

Then, he had been sent after the man with the shield. The man who was his equal (he'd never had an equal before), who had called him Bucky, a name that he now dimly recognises is his own, whose every movement and every word unearthing scraps of memory from Before. Now, he realises that he is not just an Asset. Now, he is awake and for the most part, he wishes to stay that way, to fill in the vast blank canvas.

Unfortunately, he's not having much luck with that.

So far, his strategy has been to look up the name of Bucky Barnes and work from there. This has had some effect, especially when he walked around the neighbourhood in which Bucky, in which, he once lived. But a niggling part of him says otherwise, something he is very much not used to. As an Asset, his thoughts were clear of doubt. Now, he doubts. Those doubts say that he should have stayed with the man with the shield, with the Captain, with Steve.

All the exhibitions, books and films say that they were more than friends, they were brothers, and those scraps of memory he has regained suggest that this is true. But they are only scraps, no matter how closely he guards and reviews each one, even when they wake him in the night, remembered screams mingling with real ones. The latter are always his own, while the former aren't always. And the exhibitions, books and films all purvey only the facts – or at least, looking with the eyes of someone who has had to sift good intel from bad, he sees versions of the facts that fit a specific narrative. They tell him what Bucky Barnes was; son, soldier, sergeant, sniper, hero, _friend_. They don't tell him _who_ he was. Steve could tell him that.

But he has come to realise that Steve sees what he wants to see. He sees Bucky. He does not see the Asset. He does not see what the Asset has done. Steve slept like he did, but unlike him, Steve only woke recently and he has stayed awake, staying who and what he was. Bucky has not been so lucky. His sleep was interrupted. Who and what he was has changed and been changed for him. Steve is whole. He is a hero. Bucky is not. He is a patchwork doll, more patch than doll. He is a killer.

No, he decides, he can't face Steve. Not yet. The places he is pulled to include places he does not want Steve to see. Besides, he is regaining his memories just fine as it is. The pile of notebooks beside him, in which every scrap is recorded, are coming together. Maybe soon he will be more doll than patch. Maybe.

The practical part of him – which used to be all of him, as an Asset has no room for anything approaching impracticality, but the growing number of scraps has led to the rise of impractical things like emotions and sentiment – however, points out that his rate of progress is slow, his method comparatively inefficient. If he goes on as he is, he will likely have a coherent, if shaky, sense of his true identity within ten years, a strong one in fifteen. The scraps have only filled in a corner of the canvas, and even with the dates and locations of battles in which he participated in to guide him, he has still searching blindly for his scraps. Steve may not be able to provide his scraps after he went to sleep, but he can provide so many from before, from when he was Bucky.

"Once, there was a dragon here."

He starts, and barely manages to avoid immediately reaching for a weapon. He doesn't do that anymore, not unless he has to. It draws attention and it is… wrong. Besides, some of the scraps have told him that sometimes people simply start conversations with strangers. He turns to examine the stranger and is instantly suspicious. It is a close contest between what makes him more suspicious: the harsh, cat-like voice speaking in perfect English, the cat-like eyes and unworldly beauty or the fact that she managed to sneak up on _him_.

"It demanded a tribute of fair maidens and slew the many brave knights that came to slay it," the woman continues in that same voice. Close inspection reveals a large cat-like creature sitting by her feet, eyes gleaming in the dark of her shadow. "The King of the land promised the hand of his beautiful daughter in marriage to whoever killed it. So more brave knights came to slay it and were slain in turn, while yet more maidens were devoured. Then, a cobbler's apprentice answered the challenge. He filled a dead lamb with sulphur and fed it to the dragon, which was then overtaken by a great thirst. It went to the river and drank and drank until, eventually, it exploded. The cunning apprentice married the King's beautiful daughter and became king in his own turn."

"What is the point of the story?" he asks, thinking that her answer may give some clue as to her motive, to indicate whether she is a harmless civilian or a threat to be neutralised. Profoundly unlikely as the former is, he hopes it is so. He doesn't want to neutralise people anymore. Not unless he has to.

"That bravery and gallantry are inefficient and frequently ineffective against a superior foe, leading only to a noble death," she replies. "That cunning and creative treachery succeed where strength does not and are justly rewarded."

He has heard enough. "Whoever you are, whatever you are, you're talking to the wrong person," he says, standing up and picking up his backpack.

"Am I, James Barnes?"

His gun is out and pointing between her eyes before any human could blink. She, obviously not human, simply smiles.

"How do you know that name?"

She stands up, and suddenly it is clear that she is taller than him. A cold breeze whispers around his ears. "Should Winter's Queen not know Winter's Soldier?" she asks, with a smile.

He stares at her. She is not human. She knows who he is, what he is, but is confident that he is no threat to her. In turn, she has made no move to threaten him. This leaves one option.

"What do you want from me?"

She smiles wider. "To make a bargain," she says. "I have need of a knight, a servitor in the mortal world."

He turns away. "No," he said. "I don't do that anymore. I don't belong to anyone."

"No, you don't," she agrees. "You belong to no one. You are neither the brave knight in the train of the bravest knight of them all, nor are you the soldier that HYDRA made you. You disdain being the soldier, yet you do not think yourself worthy of being the knight, and you have very little idea of what you did as either. You are a shadow of your former selves. I have no use for a shadow."

He turns back. "Then why talk to me?" he asks.

"Because I can return to you your memories," she says.

He pauses, stunned by this. "Can you make me who I was?" he asks, momentarily entertaining fantasies of time being turned back, his time as an Asset, as HYDRA's patchwork doll, erased.

"No," she says. "Nor would I if I could. I do not want the knight, nor do I want the mindless soldier." She looks hungry. "I want the will of the former and the skill of the latter. I want _my_ knight."

He considers this. "If I work for you, you'll give me back my memories?" he asks.

She nods.

"What if who I am with my memories doesn't want to do what you ask?" he asks.

She laughs. It makes his skin crawl. "It is what you have been doing for almost all of your life," she said. "You are not the noble Captain and you have never been. I do not kill indiscriminately. Nor do you. I will give you a purpose again. In my service, you will do what must be done, and you may do it in your own way."

"What would that purpose be?" he asks. She explains, giving what he expects to be the very short and much abridged version, but the theme seems to be ensuring balance. This appeals to him. He has noticed in his collection of his scraps that his missions have helped unbalance the world. Restoring balance seems a suitable recompense. "And if I accept and at at any point I don't want to do what you ask?"

Her eyes go cold and the air freezes, making his arm ache. Even before she speaks, he knows in his bones that if he is her servant and he disobeys her, she will make what HYDRA did to him pale in comparison. "I accept counsel. I do not tolerate challenges."

He considers this. He values his scraps, holding them close and painstakingly arranging them to form a bigger picture. But he knows that that picture is far too small and it is not growing fast enough. It may never grow enough. He wants to know. He _needs_ to know. He is also a realist – he knows that one way or another, he will pay a price for regaining his memories, and the current price of time and miserable, hopeless, helpless ignorance is becoming unbearable. Not only that, but having a purpose, having a mission, again, a reasonably good one (he is not foolish enough to believe that this offer is entirely altruistic), that pulls him. And maybe, knowing who he is and working to restore balance, he can face Steve again.

"Fine," he says. "If you return my memories, I'll do what you ask. I'll be your knight. If not, if you don't hold up your end of the bargain, I will kill you."

Her eyes dance with a mixture of anger and pleasure and she says nothing, waiting for him to finish.

"First things first, though," he continues. "If you're going to be my boss, I need to know who I'm dealing with. Who are you?"

"I am Mab, Queen of Air and Darkness. I am Mab, Queen of the Unseelie Sidhe. I am Mab, Queen of the Winter Court," she says, and smiles. "And you, James Barnes, will be my Winter Knight."


End file.
